Exotic Fair of a Wandering Muse

"Katie" in Underworlds!

Angela Caperton — Sat, 19 May 2012 19:32:54 GMT

Contrast is everything.

I just sold another story to Mischief, for their anthology Underworlds. The story is called “Katie” and is set in the late 1800s. It is loosely based on the real-life case of Dr. William Crookes, a renowned British chemist and physicist, who conducted experiments in spiritualism with a pretty young “physical medium” named Florence Cook. Of course, the manifestations in my story are considerably sexier than anything Dr. Crookes recorded in his notebooks!

I enjoy writing stories set in past eras, not only because I love history, especially its darker and weirder corners, but also because such eras provide an opportunity to emphasize the power of sexuality by setting it against a background less sexualized than today’s world. Much of the dramatic appeal I find in erotica comes from the contrast of a story’s sexual content against these more inhibited time frames. I’ve used eras like the 1950s as a backdrop for stories such as “Calendar Girl,” and I drew on the 1840s for my story of Millerite shenanigans, “Rapture,” because those eras make a sharper contrast that allows relatively mild sexuality to appear daring, even forbidden. It’s not an easy thing for an erotica writer to be shocking in the age of Kink.com, but I like the challenge. If I’m successful, I hope I can craft a story that helps the reader adjust their attitude to see things through other eyes.

The general notion of the Victorian era as a completely repressed epoch is not exactly accurate. Although there was certainly a puritanical streak that dominated polite consciousness, there was also a tremendous amount of barely repressed eroticism that broke out in interesting ways. The erotic elements of spiritualism were certainly not emphasized in contemporary accounts, but more than one female medium conducted her séances lightly clad or sometimes entirely nude, ostensibly to prevent fraud. The effect cannot have been lost on the gentlemen sitting around the table. Also, most séances were conducted in the dark and, although all hands were supposed to be on the tipping table, who knows what might have happened beneath it? Add in the intriguing possibilities of ectoplasmic extrusions and wonderful things are possible!

Writing a story in a historical period, of course, presents different challenges from a contemporary tale or one set in an entirely fantastic world, like my novel Woman of the Mountain, but the advantages are significant. The internet offers limitless research resources and direct access to period detail and texts that have never been easily available to writers before. I love taking advantage of modern technology to embellish my little windows into the past. When you look into that gas-lit chamber, there’s no telling what naughty things you might see – at the tipping table or under it…

Underworlds will be published by Mischief later this year.

What's New? TONS!

Angela Caperton — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 01:24:40 GMT

Earlier this month I wrote about my erotic romance Standing Stone being re-published, and at the time, the original publication date was going to be May 1st. My publisher asked if I was good with bumping up the publication to tomorrow—April 15th. What do you think I said? So tomorrow you can purchase Standing Stone! If you would like to read an except, go here!

I love it when my stories are singled out by anthology reviewers. My recent tale, “Before the Autumn Queen,” in Curvy Girls: Erotica for Women, just received a very nice compliment in a review by Steve Isaak, reviewer at Reading and Writing by Pub Light. You can purchase Curvy Girls here.

In other print news, I am a Mischief author! The newly launched erotica line by the UK arm of Harper-Collins is headed by Adam Nevill, former editor for Black Lace. My short story “Rent” will be in an upcoming erotic paranormal anthology called The Visitor. “Rent” is set during the Great Depression and tells the story of a vampire who operates a rooming house in San Francisco. Mischief has received a lot of attention in the press and I am very excited to be a part of this new venture!

Also, I am very pleased that two of my stories, “The Boiling Sea” and “Barnacle Bill” will be in Maxim Jakubowski’s Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11 to be released in December 2012! Both tales are dark erotica, and I do think they are two of the best stories I’ve written. “The Boiling Sea” follows a Vietnam veteran while he travels through a late 60’s erotic and psychedelic Wonderland adventure. “Barnacle Bill” is a dark Lovecraftian tale of karma and transformation. The stories were originally published in Circlet Press’s Like a Vorpal Blade and in my short story collection Darkness and Delight.

Also recently, my dystopian superhero story “Lawman” has been selected to appear in Circlet Press’s print collection Fantastic Erotica: The Best of Circlet Press 2008-2012. “Lawman” is the story of a retired, formerly superhuman veteran of a 70-year war on immorality and what happens when he decides to walk on the wild side. Look for Fantastic Erotica in October 2012.

At the very beginning of this year, my horror novella Springs found a new home at Renaissance eBooks! Now you can also purchase it at Amazon and barnesandnoble.com. Springs is the story of Cherie, a video game music composer and what happens when, under the pressure of a critical deadline, she receives a mysterious music box. You can read an excerpt here.

Finally, I’m closing in on finishing the edit of Woman of His Dream, the horror serial that appears on this blog. As soon as I’m finished, it’s off to the publishers! Look for more on Woman of His Dreams as the year progresses, and if you want to read the serial, you can start with the first episode right here!

So, onward to the rest of the year!

Coming Soon: Standing Stone

Angela Caperton — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 01:20:33 GMT

A few weeks ago, I blogged about my erotic horror novella Springs finding a new home with Renaissance E-Books. Now, another of my earlier stories is being reprinted in a new, standalone edition by eXstasy.

Coming April 15 (bumped up from May 1), eXtasy will publish Standing Stone, a novelette I originally sold to a now out-of-print anthology. I appreciate the original publisher returning all rights to the authors as quickly as they did, and since then, Standing Stone has been looking…

I think, for any writer, returning to a work from the early seasons is always a nervous business. It was with some hesitation that I opened the file to see about edits. Modesty aside, I was very happy with how much I still liked Standing Stone, and at how little touch-up I needed to do!

This short book is comprised of three stories, all set in a valley in Northern Europe, but spanning thousands of years. All three parts revolve around the titular stone, an ancient altar to the gods and goddesses of prehistoric Europe. Part one is set in the Bronze Age, where a mushroom-crazed shaman meets a tribal witch under the powerful influence of a new moon. Part two takes place in the early days of the Holy Roman Empire, with a full moon in the sky, and part three is set in the third decade of the 21st Century, where a crone moon lies nearly hidden behind world-blanketing smoke arising from the pyre of civilization. Standing Stone is a very romantic story and an optimistic one, but like all of life, there are shadows too. Ultimately, life is about the journeys we take, through darkness and light, and for some, the discovery of a love that binds paired souls to one divine place…

Here’s an excerpt from the second chapter:

She took Olavus’ hand and led him into the forest. It grew wild, untouched by any axe, the trees like towers, the tangle of their branches defying the light of the rising sun. It seemed they walked for a long time in a golden haze and soon the clanking of his armor's scales sounded like so much rage and fire. He tried to tread with a softer foot.

"If you are not Roman," she asked him. "Who are you?"

"I told you. I serve Kang Karl and he is the vassal of God through the glory of Christ."

"Yes," she said, and they walked in silence for a while.

The trees thinned and bright cries of a hunting hawk echoed distantly.

"What happened to the boy's father?" Olavus asked her.

She shrugged. "He sickened when the moon was dark and died when it was full."

"I am sorry, Vreni." He wanted to put his arm around her but, in truth, he feared her.

"What happened to your son?" she asked.

His heart bled pain. How did she know?

"I was sent east, against…pagans, and I left him in Westphalia with his mother, where they should've been safe. The Saxons came. My wife and son were gone when I returned, without even graves to mark where they had died."

They emerged from the forest and into the bright morning. Beyond a little field of tall grass, he saw a standing stone, the gray of noonday shadows, in a cluster of young oak trees. Before the monolith, a rough stone altar glinted with offerings and Olavus knew it to be an abomination to God. His heart began to pound like a fist in a cage of bone.

She led him through the grass. Soft summer heat teased a trickle of sweat from under his helmet. The altar before the pagan shrine lay cluttered with offerings, and he wondered what lives might have been sacrificed here. Behind the stone, a shallow pit had been dug and filled with dry branches and boughs of pine, where fire would burn to the glory of the witch's god, like the rites of Moloch and Ba'al, Odin and Mahomet the god of the Moors.

"This is a holy place," Vreni said to him. "We pray and Moan protects us."

"Do you know why I have come here?" he asked.

She said nothing, but knelt before the altar, her thin shift brushing the backs of her calves. The curve of her butt was round and full. He felt his cock stirring and, in spite of the grimness of his errand, he had to hide a grin of wonder.

He had not wanted any woman since Westphalia, since Calia died, and now, may God preserve his soul, he wanted this one.

His words emerged in a whisper, harsher than he meant it, the exact sentence the priest had given him.

"I am here by command of the Church of St. Peter, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to bring the word of truth to your valley, and if you will not hear it, to temper your people until you embrace the true faith and renounce your false gods."

She looked at him over her shoulder and he saw fear in her eyes and sorrow.

"I will not harm you," he told her. "Nor will my men, but we must return from this valley with word that you have converted."

She settled and stretched her bare legs before the altar, resting on one hand, looking up at him with eyes that had turned to azure. Her shift rode low on her breasts and he saw their soft brown swell, the line of a stiffened nipple beneath the linen. "If you harm even one person here, you will have to kill me," she said quietly.

"Yes," he said. "I know."

Copyright 2012 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Too Much Sex?

Angela Caperton — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 01:46:48 GMT

Here’s a question I’ve been pondering. Can there be too much sex in an erotic story? I almost feel silly talking about gratuitous content in a work of erotica, but there it is.

Woman of the Mountain, was criticized by one reviewer as having too much sex. I saw the reviewer’s point. Since the novel takes place in a world where sex is literally a connection to divinity, the rampant coupling potentially cheapened the sacrament. Woman went on to win an Eppie for best erotica in 2008, but if I were to rewrite it today, I might well remove a steamy page or two.

The easy answer to my question is “an erotic story should have at least as much sex as the story requires.” Many of my tales are, one way or another, about sex. The erotic scenes are central to the story so it’s easy enough to tie the heat and the plot together. In a short story, it's easier to find the right level of sex, but novels are harder. I’m in the process right now of weaving the 52+ chapters of my blog serial, Woman of His Dreams, into a novel, so the question has been circling around my brain as I restructure the story. On the blog, I felt like there should be at least a little sex in each chapter, but in a 57,000 word novel, the frequent fucking becomes choppy. Of course. I’m also finding other challenges turning a serial into a novel—pacing, balancing two viewpoints, and such. The process has been educational, though it’s taking longer than I had intended. I’m hoping to have it to a publisher this summer. If you want to read the raw material, with sex in every sequence, it’s all still here.

One unique facet of my chosen genre makes my question even harder to answer. Many readers of erotica read for at least two purposes. Some erotica readers read more for the stories than for prurient interest, but some readers are primarily looking for the kicks that hot, explicit scenes provide. Too little sex in a story definitely risks turning off the reader seeking wank material, while too much may annoy one who reads more for story. Of course, most readers appreciate both elements so, as long as the story justifies the sex, the balance is not too difficult to maintain. For me the ideal approach is to make the sex fit the tale but don’t hold back.

Finally, in erotica, much like horror fiction, I think the best effects are those that are created in a reader’s mind by leaving things unsaid in the prose, which makes the balance between explicitness and ellipsis even more important. Over the five years I’ve been writing, I’ve tried to strike a balance between too much and too little, but I’m sure I sometimes still get the mix wrong. I suppose if I had to condense my experience down into simple advice for a beginning erotica author, I would say, “write just as much sex into the story as you need and then add just a little more.”

A Tale of a Modern Succubus

Angela Caperton — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 01:44:22 GMT

I just got word that my short story “The Sorcerer’s Catch” will be published by Cleis in the anthology Seductress: Tales of Immortal Desire, edited by the delightful D.L. King. It’s always gratifying to have a story selected for a book from Cleis, but I am especially happy to see this story going to print.

“The Sorcerer’s Catch” is one of a series of stories that I’ve written over the years that tell the adventures of a succubus named Anastasia. Ana’s tale didn’t start out as a series, but I find myself returning to the character every so often. The very first tale I sold to a print anthology – “Understudy” in Lust at First Bite (recently reprinted in Germany!) – was an Ana tale. Others include “Last Kiss” in Slip of the Lip, a lovely free e-book edited by Remittance Girl and still available here, and “The Blood of Dreams,” which is included in my collection from Renaissance eBooks, Darkness and Delight.

In most of Ana’s stories, she is more of a muse or a catalyst -- the inspiration for dark, vampiric dreams in “Understudy” and “The Blood of Dreams,” and a messenger of peaceful transition in “Last Kiss”. This latest story however features her as a main character and is the first time I have really touched on her past and her nature, a background I hope will feed many tales in the future.

Ana is not your typical succubus; she’s a modern girl who came into her full power right around 1900. Apart from the usual succubus mischief, arousing and gratifying sleepers, she also lives in a world of externalized dreams, the theater, movies, radio, all the visions and nightmares that defined the 20th Century and that continue to haunt us today. Someday I would love to compile her history as an episodic novel, and who knows, maybe I will…

Here’s a short excerpt from “The Sorcerer’s Catch.” Look for the complete anthology in October 2012!

Excerpt “The Sorcerer’s Catch”
Copyright 2012 Angela Caperton
All right reserved.

Now I have you,” the young man in the black robe said.

He spoke the truth. Anastasia was pinned within the magic circle drawn in red paint around the man’s bed, trapped as securely as the least devil in the hands of Faust himself.

The magician – the first conjurer she had met in the 21st Century -- had drawn his circle tightly enough that Ana could not move off the bed even a single step, so she knelt there on red silk sheets, trying to look demure. She had approached his bed gowned in smoke and when he had sprung his trap, bringing her out of dreams and into his world, the smoke solidified into black lace, draping her ivory skin like alluring spider webs that left her all but naked before his direct gaze.

She covered her breasts, gratified by the disappointment in his eyes. He was very young, no more than twenty-five years old. Was he powerful in his magic or just lucky?

“What shall I call you?” she asked him, trying not sound surly.

“Adam.” She had hoped he would be stupid enough to tell her his real name, but she knew at once that he had given a false one.

“What do you want of me, Adam?” The name would suffice for now. It said something about him that he chose that name. “What must I do to be free again?”

“First, Anastasia, you will teach me,” he said. From within his robe, he produced four golden chains, delicate things, like jewelry, but she sensed the inscriptions on the links, binding runes that would cage her.

He looped her wrists and ankles, pulled tight and spread her face-up on the crimson sheets. He touched her with strong firm hands, spoke words of protection as he worked, careful, as though he might be fearful of releasing some demon inside her.

No, she conceded as he finished forcing her legs well apart, he was not stupid.

When Adam finished his work, he had bound her to the four posts of the bed and she lay helpless before him. The situation was not unpleasant, even though she faced the direst sort of danger.

“Teach you what?” she asked, tugging the unyielding chains, testing them.

He watched for a moment then reached down to part her robe of webs, baring her breasts and belly and the little wisp of lacy shadow that covered her pussy.

“Carnal knowledge,” he replied formally. “Teach me all things, both lawful and forbidden.”

#

He had called her by her favorite name, Anastasia, a name she had taken from the dream of a Bolshevik soldier long ago. The man had guarded the Romanoff family in Ipatiev’s house and, days later, after the soldier had helped to kill the girl, he dreamed about her. His guilt and obsession had drawn the attention of a bored succubus. It had heralded a new beginning for Ana, awakened her to the dawning century and the grand dreams of men and women with plans to remake the world.

When the whims of dreamers demanded another name, she would take one, to seduce and entice, but Anastasia had become the name she called herself for almost a hundred years.

And now this young wizard, this barely grown man, had summoned her by her name, in the voice of rituals unspoken in three generations, drawn her with the rich lure of her own curiosity. She had descended into his dream and his magic circle had closed like a foothold trap. Now she lay bound to his bed.

“Wait,” she breathed as he reached for the wisp of her panties.

Copyright 2012 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Vote at Circlet press! - "The Coming Age" excerpt

Angela Caperton — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 17:04:33 GMT

“The Coming Age” was one of the first short stories I sold, the story published in 2009 to the Circlet anthology Like a Corset Undone, an erotic steampunk anthology. “The Coming Age” has been selected as a potential addition to the upcoming Circlet Best of print anthology. Please take a moment and vote for “The Coming Age” or perhaps one of my other tales to be included in what promises to be a very fine collection of genre erotica!

“The Coming Age” is set in Chicago in 1893, during the Columbian Exposition. The fair, popularized by Erik Larson’s superb history The Devil in the White City, was a 19th Century watershed, pointing the way toward the new century in the fields of science, invention, entertainment, and murder.

My story is a simple “what if.” Imagine that Wilhelm Reich’s orgone theory had a practical application – that sex energy could be harnessed and focused – and then imagine that a brilliant young inventor had done exactly that in 1893. Please enjoy the following excerpt and vote for my story if you like it!

Excerpt from
"The Coming Age"
© Angela Caperton
From Like a Corset Undone
Published by Circlet Press, 2009

Elizabeth watched the Arabian girl's hips and the fast, dizzying gyrations of her round stomach. Finnian stood beside Elizabeth, solid as a lamp post, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "Place is full of erosflux. You feel it? Mostly blue, but there's some red too."

The only woman in Little Egypt's crowd, Elizabeth certainly felt something in the raucous men around her—the possibility of danger, the heat of their lust. She had learned so much in her first week working for Dr. Mason—about the erotic flux, the universal energy force that surrounded men and women. "The electrical essence of sex," he called it. She smiled. The word didn't make her blush any more. She had already written reams of letters for the doctor. Several of them, to his colleagues in Paris, he had dictated in French. Some of the words were new to her and Dr. Mason explained them to her patiently, without a hint of impropriety.

The belly dancer finished with a flourish, bowing low, her breasts nearly spilling from her silky halter. The room exhaled and Elizabeth imagined that the erosflux must have subsided.

Finnian rested his hand on her hip and a pleasant shiver passed through her. "Come on," he said, leading her from the Egyptian Theater, down the Streets of Cairo, past a small cadre of sleepy camels, and out onto the furious rush of the Midway Plaisance. In spite of the deepening shadow cast by the enormous wheel that dominated the sky, the sun blushed red off in the direction of Prosperity Street and turned Ferris's titanic amusement device into a Catherine Wheel of fire. To the east, night crept over the lake. A rising breeze blew fresh scent and scattered the smells of popped corn, sizzling meat, and pressed humanity.

The White City burned with pale fire, the shining lights of science painting the buildings golden in the sunset, highlighted with the pale, bright shine of electricity. Elizabeth and Finnian made their way west, the great wheel above them beginning to turn, so close she felt its metal breath upon her neck.

She took Finnian's arm and leaned into him, deliberately pressing her breast against his forearm. He grinned at her and winked. "Doc wanted you to see Little Egypt. He wants to get her up to the house, but the cops have already warned him away once. Doc says she'd likely break his machine."

She thought for a moment, picking exactly the right question. "When will
I get to see his machine?" she asked.

"Pretty soon, I think," Finnian said.

She kissed Finnian's cheek, grateful for his escort to the fair. She liked being with him. He was so very different from any man she had known back in Whistle Springs, direct and honest in his words and the way he looked at her. She supposed, given the nature of Dr. Mason's work, directness about such matters as romance and lovemaking was essential.

"The lights are beautiful," she said with a wistful sigh as she looked back at the White City. With night's cloak drawing tighter over the fair, electrical illumination eclipsed the horizon, like masses of stars fallen to earth.

"Doc says the erosflux is even more powerful than electricity," Finnian confided. "And it's all around us, in every man and woman."

"And he seeks to tame it," she said. "Like Mr.Tesla tamed the lightning?"

"Nothing tame about it, Miss Newkirk. Let's go home. I reckon I can show you the machine, if you're sure you want to see it."

"Oh, yes," she nodded, excited. She glanced once more at the night burning behind the spinning wheel. "More than anything in the world."

**

Her father would never approve of her living in the house on Prosperity Street, but Dr. Mason gave her no choice if she wanted the job and, after that first day, she wanted it very badly indeed. She had never felt so good in all her life, her senses stimulated and her mind free. Dr. Mason gave her a room of her own with a private bath. Nothing improper took place, though the constant sense of flirtation and arousal that had begun when she sat within the shining pod—the Receptor—kept her skin warm and her blood racing.

Finnian's work now centered on a smaller device that occupied a bench in the little workroom that adjoined the Receptor room: the room where Elizabeth had seen him undress while she sat within the pod. She understood now that his display of nudity had been designed to help make her body ready to receive the erosflux that had flowed around her, to quicken her desire and lower her sense of caution. "It was a test, Ms. Newkirk, to see if you could be an asset to my experiment. You don't scare or startle easily, and your level of acceptance is admirable," Dr. Mason explained. She smiled and found, to her surprise, that she held no ill feeling toward him. In fact, she kept hoping for a repeat of the experience.

No one spoke of the exact nature of Finnian's current labors, though Elizabeth sensed the frustration of both men. Whatever unknown goal they reached for, their failure to achieve it made the air thick with tension. Sometimes she tried to peek at Finnian's workbench, but she saw little of the object, save that it seemed about the size of a human torso and had spindly parts, like legs or bands. When Finnian left off working on the project and covered it with a cloth, it reminded Elizabeth of a gigantic spider.

Besides Dr. Mason and Finnian, a pretty maid named Natalie lived in the house. Dark of hair and eye and with a plump, curvy body, a natural beauty radiated from her—fresh and clean, but touched with mystery. Natalie rarely spoke and, when she did, her words were colored by an accent Elizabeth did not know. Natalie cooked and cleaned and spent many hours alone with Dr. Mason in the mysterious room at the end of the hall, down from the office and the room where the Receptor sat.

The oddest thing about Natalie was the garment she wore most often, a flowing white robe that covered her from neck to ankle, modest enough, though from the bouncing motion of Natalie's ample bosom beneath the robe, Elizabeth knew the maid wore no corset beneath it and perhaps no other garment whatsoever.

After Finnian and Elizabeth left the midway, they caught the trolley west and walked the last mile to Prosperity Street. By the time they arrived at the old house, no lights shone within. Elizabeth heard every joist pop, every floorboard creak as they slipped quietly in and made their way through the entryway and into the wing where Dr. Mason's work unfolded.

"He'll show you soon, himself, so just pretend you're surprised," Finnian said with a grin as he led her down the hall. She peeked into the Receptor room, saw its shape in the dimness, and shivered when she remembered the intense pleasure she enjoyed within its tight dimensions.

Finnian opened the big door at the end of the hall and ushered her in. The size of the room startled Elizabeth. In this portion of the old house, the second floor and the attic floor had been removed entirely and the walls and ceiling shored up with timbers. The windows of a hollow cupola shone with the light of the moon, casting blue glamour over the cavernous chamber. In the fairy glow, Dr. Mason's machine loomed in the shape of a gigantic human form, a metal god, its torso golden bristling with coils of wire, shining glass bubbles, and little outcroppings of gleaming metal.

Finnian lit a gaslight near the door, exchanging pale moonlight for dusk and gold. The machine was indeed in the shape of a giant, sculpted with considerable skill, mostly of bronze. The giant had no face, only a gleaming surface of silvery metal, and it stood thigh-deep in the floor. Below its waist, the bronze opened into a little alcove or chamber.

"Behold the Erogine!" Finnian whispered loudly as he took her by the hand.

A rising excitement obliterated any fear she might have felt. Was the erosflux thicker and stronger around the machine, Elizabeth mused? In the little chamber at the base of the Erogine, a platform stood that looked much like a bed, constructed of layers similar to those in the pod, leather, rubber, silk, and a woven sheet of copper.

Finnian rested his hands on her hips and Elizabeth saw his intention clearly in his gaze. Breathless, her own desire quickened.

"You been with a man?" he asked her.

"Yes, no." she said. "There was a man back in Whistle Springs. Robert. Sometimes we touched each other."

"Good enough," he said, unfastening the buttons of her dress. "I'll be gentle."

Impatient, she attacked his vest with eager fingers and Finnian chuckled, surprised and pleased. They kissed, more urgently than Elizabeth had ever kissed Robert, or anyone for that matter, and she thrilled at his tongue behind her lips, teasing her palette. He cupped her breast and, even through the stiffened fabric of her corset, the heat and pressure of his big hand rippled pleasure through her body.

He lifted her and her dress fell away. He laid her on the platform, one hand working on the stays of her corset and the other under her petticoat, his fingers like hot bands lacing her thigh. Tender as breath, his fingertips touched the lips of her pussy. Shocks of sensation flooded her core and she moistened as he stroked.

Finnian clearly had experience in such maneuvers, for he unlaced her swiftly. As he pulled away her petticoat, the rough back of his hand brushed against her mons, sending another jolt through her. With a few deft motions Finnian stripped her to the last garment. She lay naked before him, the first time in her life she had ever been entirely naked to any man.

Finnian lay beside her, his dark eyes wild as a beast's, his breath ragged, but his hands infinitely tender, worshipping her with firm strokes, hip and waist, circling her breasts, not quite venturing to touch the nipples. She marveled at his penis, somewhat longer and thicker than Robert's and yet much the same. She found she knew exactly where to touch him to make the head swell and the shaft grow veiny and hard.

Such magic, she thought, as Finnian moaned from her touch.

Then he moved atop her, pinning her hands with his, though she had not thought of trying to escape. His cock rode above her stomach as he kissed her breast, assaulting the nipple with his teeth. In a fluid motion he slipped into her.

She anticipated the pain, but the dull tearing seemed barely an edge of sense as it lanced, the white hot tip of a candle flame. Then all turned gold, the pleasure running like molten metal into her legs and her belly. She raised her legs to ease his entry, the most natural motion in the world, and she felt the erosflux around her, a blue-white cloud that gathered in the loins of the Erogine.

Finnian rode her in long, deep thrusts; slow, sensitive this first time she had been mounted, almost reverent. Elizabeth moved against him, her pussy anxious to hold all of him deep inside her, aware of his pulse and the racing of his heart like a motor.

The room glowed blue at the edges of her vision and the Erogine began to pound in subtle rhythm, the brass expanding and contracting, the flux almost raging, untamed, all around them, within them, everywhere.

The ecstatic crest Elizabeth remembered from inside the Receptor returned, as though the two moments in time were one, and then she rocketed into other realms, Finnian's cock inside her, the scepter of the god erupting, her orgasmic scream of joy echoed in the hollow torso of the machine.

He sagged atop her, his bulk considerable but his hot weight delightful. His shrinking penis still buried deep inside her kept her linked to the miracle that raged around them for a moment longer, then passed, leaving warmth as precious as noonday sunshine.

Her fingers traced the corded muscles of his back. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but the words echoed inside her, inadequate.

"Yes! Oh, yes!" The cry caused Elizabeth to jump under Finnian and he lazily lifted himself partially up, his cock still inside her, stirring again. Rising as best she could, she saw Dr. Mason and Natalie outside the chamber, the doctor's face illuminated by a smile that almost betokened madness.

Strangely, shame did not prick at Elizabeth even considering her exposed state, naked and penetrated. She tingled with the extension of her pleasure, like a pool of light around them, the erosflux, reaching out and including the doctor and the maid. Her gaze easily found the evidence of Dr. Mason's excitement—his penis bulged in his overalls, the impressive length reaching almost halfway to his knee.

"You broke the meter, my dears!" the doctor exclaimed. "If we'd handled that properly, they would have felt it in Philadelphia!"

Copyright 2009 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Vote at Circlet Press! - "Lawman" Excerpt

Angela Caperton — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 21:16:01 GMT

Three of my stories, “Lawman”, “The Coming Age” and The Boiling Sea” are up for voting to be included in a Best of Circlet Digital Library. I’m very pleased and humbled to be in the company of so many great Circlet authors on the ballot!

Here’s an excerpt from my story “Lawman”, that appeared in Like a Mask Removed, Vol. 1 and is also available in the philanthropic anthology, Coming Together: In Flux. “Lawman” is set in a dark future where the government, through the use of superhuman Lawmen, enforces a rigorously strict moral code. Dean, retired after years of enforcing the Puritanical rules, decides he wants a taste of the very pleasures he arrested people for when he was a Lawman.

I’d be honored if you’d vote for “Lawman” to be included in the Best of Circlet anthology! You can find the poll at http://www.circlet.com/?p=3777

**

Excerpt from
“Lawman”
© Angela Caperton
From Like a Mask Removed Vol. 1
Published by Circlet Press, 2010

The little blind wouldn’t last long, Dean knew, and he was taking an enormous risk even walking through the hidden door. With a professional eye, he gauged the walls, sheets of painted metal, probably cork or foam behind them, with some kind of radio noise generator in the back room. In the old days, a place like this wouldn’t last a single night before the Lawmen found it, but times had changed. So had he. Past forty-five, two years off the force. Dean figured it was worth the risk while he still had some juice in him.

Besides the bartender, only two other people sat in the blind, a man nearly asleep in a booth on the back wall and a woman drinking by herself at the bar. Dean sat down beside her. He liked the shape of her cheek bones and the fullness of her lips when she smiled at him.

“Hello, handsome,” she purred. The bartender hovered long enough to take Dean’s order, beer for himself and another martini for the woman.

“I’m Maggie,” she offered. “And I was afraid I was going to have a lonely night.”

He looked her over, appraising her, assessing the risk and the reward. Midthirties and she took good care of herself. He let himself smile and lightly gripped her arm, nodding toward the most remote table in the place. The bartender followed with their drinks and then left them alone.

“You come here often?” Dean asked her.

She laughed. “Here. Other places. I go where I have to, to find company.”

He marveled at her and wondered how many more like her there were in the thick cities, where the Lawmen had finally allowed a little sin to creep back, like weeds in an otherwise perfect garden.

“You must be pretty smart,” he commented before he took a sip of his beer. “Just to survive, I mean.”

She startled a little at that. He wanted to smell her fear. That always turned him on, but he reminded himself, he wanted something different tonight.

“Relax,” he said, trying himself to relax. “Enjoy your drink.” He downed his beer and ordered rye, straight up.

“You’re not the kind of guy I usually see in these places,” Maggie said, her gaze casually scanning the empty bar.

He squinted a little and focused on her. Time to end the dance. “I used to be a Lawman,” he said casually.

For just an instant, he could smell her fear, just like the old days. His cock hardened.

“You’re fucking with me,” she twittered, nervous, and then she stopped, her eyes widening.

“Four years ago, I would have had to take you in just for saying ‘fucking’,” he said dryly, then knocked back the rye with a laugh.

Maggie’s breath turned heavy and Dean knew he’d gotten lucky. Some girls would’ve fled the blind and not looked back but Maggie stayed with him and soon, she’d give him exactly what he wanted.

“I thought all you guys lived...” she started.

“Down in Rio? Yeah, mostly we do. That’s where they retire us. We call it heaven. Kind of a joke.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Heaven gets...” he paused and grinned. “Really fucking boring.”

Her shoulders relaxed and her pretty tits jiggled with her easing laugh.

Was she wet yet? Dean shifted on the leather seat, settling the rod of his cock down his pant leg.

Curiosity edged her musical voice. “You can’t do those things anymore, right? You know, fly? Bend steel bars? See through walls?”

He shook his head. “I’m retired.”

“Wow.” She smiled at him with suspended awe then killed her martini.

The bartender popped up like a pixie with fresh drinks for both of them. Then he vanished behind the bar again, Maggie leaned close. “What was it like?”

“What do you think?” he whispered with a sad grin. He covered her warm, slender little hand with his big, calloused one. “It was magic.”

A magic called ACIP, the American Cerebellum Improvement Project, and its chief product, a mix of chemicals that opened up human senses beyond anything anyone had ever imagined.

One shot of ACIP every day let a man see all the spectrums and filter through them as easily as distinguishing red from blue, sharpened hearing and smell, and sent the juice that makes a guy strong into an orbit somewhere out around Saturn. His muscles and meat hardened into something much tougher than rhino skin, and his brain even learned what gravity felt like and how to turn it off.

She sat beside him, silent for a long moment. Finally she asked, the weight of the question immeasurable. “I heard Lawmen can’t, you know? Get it up.

Is that right?”

“I’m not a Lawman anymore, honey,” he said, taking her hand and carrying it to his lap.

It was true. The same magic elixir that made men into supermen took away all sexual desire. Rumor said J. Edgar himself had insisted it work that way. Super saltpeter. Probably smart or all the Lawmen would’ve been corrupted by their own cocks.

She left her hand where he put it. Her fingers, light and direct, knew exactly what to do. “I guess you’re not,” she said, smiling. “So you can’t fly anymore either?”

“Only in my dreams, baby,” he said before pulling her to him and kissing her. She tasted like lip balm.

And oh, the dreams! Soaring high above the city, hearing it all, seeing the spectrum of x-ray and electric pulse, heat signatures of anxious men and women with crime and sin on their minds, attuned to his brother officers in a constant web above the whole world, watching and listening and smelling wrongdoing and stopping it the moment it began.

“So,” she said, slowing her stroke along the length of his cock. “What do you want?”

“You got some place to go?” he asked her. “Some place safe?”

“You tell me when you see it,” she answered and worked on her drink.

“You want to go there?”

“Yeah. In a minute.” He drank to match her, the amber rye lush on his tongue. A slow fire burned from his belly to his head. If he’d taken a drink four years ago, the other Lawmen would have smelled it, even a day later, or they would have seen the delicate pulse of his aura where the alcohol had changed his blood.

“Want to tell you a story first,” he said, his head pleasantly light from the rye. He studied Maggie’s beauty, the subtle curve of her small breasts in a white cotton blouse, the deep blue splendor of her eyes, her lips. “First week I was in the air, I flew out over Levittown 1122. One of the sector wardens called in a 4069, that’s a sodomy complaint, and dispatched me. I’ll never forget it. September...”

The air burned chill, scattering waves of heat as he cut through it, dropping in freefall then diminishing gravity to a slow glide, hearing the whisper of flesh on flesh, the board and stucco bungalow clear as glass when he filtered through the waves and pulses, finding the man and woman.

“She was beautiful,” he told Maggie. “She looked a little like you. And he was some kid no older than me. She had her mouth on him, on his... you know. His cock. I could smell their bodies, see the... excitement between them. It’s hard to explain...”

White flash pulsing, then blue, white, blue. The taste of butter. Red heat between her legs as she sucked and pulled. The flood of blood through the veins of his member. The salty perfume of his seed and her saliva.

“I waited till she finished him before I busted them,” he said. “I got a fucking demerit for that. See, when you are a Lawman, there is always someone watching you. I never made that mistake again.” He killed the rye and waved the bartender away.

“Jesus,” Maggie barely whispered. “What happened to them? The kids you busted?”

He shrugged. “Rehab. Judge gave them a break because they were married. Not a peep out of them the next five years I was over Levittown 1122. That was a long time ago, a lot of years, but I think about it all the time. Can we go to your place now?”

Maggie watched him, the seconds dragging. Dean’s gut tightened. Maybe he’d said too much. She pushed the empty glass away. “Alright, but can I ask you something first? Didn’t you ever want to push back?”

Push back, he thought, as memory sliced him in places that still hurt.

Some days, in that interminable morning hour before the shot, with his head clear, he had wondered what would happen if enough of the Lawmen got together and said “no,” but the thought blew away on the winds of need.

Saying “no” meant no more ACIP. To Dean’s knowledge, no one had ever even said, “maybe we should think about this.”

“Never,” he told Maggie. “But I’ll tell you what I do want. I want exactly what that dude got the night I busted him.” The devil danced in his words, and Dean’s heart beat a little faster.

“I want a blowjob.”

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

February ERWA Guest Author

Angela Caperton — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 03:52:40 GMT

I’m very happy to have been chosen as the Writer of the Month on the website of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association (ERWA). Posted there you will find my biography, and three of my stories, which will be available throughout February. My deepest thanks to the wonderful folks at ERWA for this honor!

As I’ve said a few times before, writing a good story is its own reward. The kick I get from polishing the last draft of a story I know is a good one is better than a bottle of fine wine. Although I’ve sold enough stories and books now that I should be accustomed to the afterglow of a sale, it’s still a thrill when I get an acceptance e-mail and a disappointment when one of my stories doesn’t make the cut.

I’m not a particularly social writer. I’ve yet to go to a convention or symposium or sign a book in person to a reader. I have met a couple of my writing peers and those meetings have been utterly delightful! My output on the two blogs I contribute to, my Tweets, and Facebook posts – all these things are pretty sparse compared to the socializing of other authors. I can’t lie; I don’t have a talent for that aspect of the business. What I hope is that my work speaks for me.

Since most of my writing is done in near isolation, the recognition of being chosen as the Writer of the Month for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association is a tremendous boost. When I first started out trying to write classy smut, the ERWA was the most important resource for my efforts. Now, I am humbled and grateful to find myself featured on their wonderful website, which, in combination with their e-mail lists, still provides the best resource in the world for anyone who wants to write and market erotic fiction, and for readers, the site is a goldmine of consistently smart, well-written erotica.

Calendar Girl” was first published in Peep Show and then I was delighted to have it selected by Maxim Jakubowski for the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10. It is also available as a podcast on Nobilis Reed’s incredible site Nobilis Erotica. I write a lot of stories set in past time periods. “Calendar Girl” gave me a chance to play with the cultural calm just before the sexual storm of the 1960s and to write about the world of camera clubs and pin-up models.

“Timbre”, which was originally published in Best Women’s Erotica 2010 (edited by the amazing Violet Blue) is one of my favorite stories from the past few years (and one that I think might make a great podcast too! –nudge, nudge-). As contemporary erotica, “Timbre” is a little out of the ordinary …you might call it a story about aural sex.

Finally, “Ninth Wave” is a new, unpublished story and an example of my darker work that has found homes with Circlet Press, Renaissance eBooks, and other publishers of supernatural and SF-themed erotica.

Once again, a huge thank you to my editors, publishers, friends, and readers who have helped me to this point. I really hope you like what I write, because there’s a lot more to come!

They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

Angela Caperton — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 02:21:40 GMT

Regular readers of this blog know that the conventions of writing genre fiction are endlessly fascinating to me. I always find my time well spent trying to understand them, since they directly affect the likelihood of me placing any given story with an editor. And maybe my musings will be helpful to other writers.

I’ll have some fun announcements here in a week or so, and one of the stories I’ll be talking about – and that will be available to read free online – is an erotic tale called “The Ninth Wave.” Writing that story and my initial attempt at marketing it (to an editor who objected to an absence of sympathetic characters) led me to think about a factor in genre writing that I really had not considered before – the likeability of characters.

Since I came to erotica from a background of reading romances, most of my early stories featured “nice” protagonists. Writing my novel, Woman of the Mountain, I struggled constantly with making my heroes as interesting as my villains. Reading more erotica and drawing more on other traditions of genre literature – horror and noir fiction in particular -- has given me more comfort in writing about characters who are not good people at all, but it sometimes creates clashes with the editorial vision of desired markets.

Characters should of course be “interesting,” but there is no more subjective a word in the English language. Conventional dramatic theory also holds that, in a properly constructed tale, a character will undergo a change in the course of the telling. In classic literature, change often takes the form of moral reform – a flawed man who learns the virtues of heroism, a weak woman who discovers strength through love – and this trajectory is still common in many modern works, especially romance. There is nothing whatsoever wrong with this value system, if the story can still be told with a fresh voice or viewpoint.

The values that make a character “good” or at least that make a character one a reader can identify with, become even more complicated in erotica. For example, the narrator of “Pet Door” in Girls Who Bite is extremely submissive. Whether a particular reader finds her likeable is likely to be directly related to the reader’s own attitude toward submissiveness. A reader without an empathic understanding of submission may find her weak or even creepy, while a submissive reader may identify with her, and a dominant reader may find her an object of desire.

Increasingly, as I hope my readers know, I am writing stories that are unconcerned with genre and I am facing the fact that selling them is going to be harder (though I am certainly pleased with recent successes!). Being mindful of the likeability of my characters is another checkpoint now when I populate a story. It is always worth asking myself the questions, “Who will like this man?” “Why will a reader care about this woman?” “What’s useful about the flawed parts of her nature?””How important is it that she improve her flaws over the course of the narrative?”

My answers to these questions will flesh out the characters I create. More fully dimensioned characters will certainly improve my stories, no matter what other genre conventions I’m violating.

After all, a good character can make any transgression just that much more attractive…

Springs and Videogame Sexuality

Angela Caperton — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 22:52:10 GMT

Can a video game be sexy? Movies, stories, paintings, photographs -we have tens of thousands of examples, arousal for every taste, from every stage in human history. Video games are the entertainment art form of our day, and while sex is not an overt selling point, it has played a role, from Leisure Suit Larry to virtual worlds where explicit sex is the specialty. The history of sexualizing video games follow the path of computerized entertainment - from low rez strip poker games back in the Commodore 64 era to multiplayer “adult” environments on Second Life and beyond. Sex and video games however are not commonly associated.

My novelette Springs – just published in a new edition by Renaissance e-books – is one of several stories I’ve written about virtual worlds and sexuality and I feel sure it is a theme I will return to, because I’m fascinated by the possibilities. Springs is the story of Cherie, a smart young woman working in the “man’s world” of a video game studio. She’s a musician and sound designer for a “survival horror” game – like Resident Evil, for those who may not know the genre otherwise. Amused by the adolescent fantasies inherent in the game, she sets out to make an artistic contribution to the product but finds herself with a severe case of composer’s block.

Inspiration comes in the form of an antique music box. Music boxes are early examples of binary media, like difference engines and mechanical calculators but aimed at the stimulation of aesthetic sensibilities, so the line between the old media and the new is rich with promise. Cherie soon discovers that the box is a little window into a past world of the darkest sorcery, into a history of obsession and murder -- timeless themes, musical and otherwise.

When I was thinking about this blog entry, I remembered Marshall McLuhan, of all people, a 20th Century philosopher whose work was, at one time, on the cutting edge of communications theory. McLuhan was one of the first thinkers to explore the idea that our media are the extensions of our senses. He’s probably best remembered as the guy who said “The Medium is the Message.” When I looked him up, I was surprised to discover that today is the 31st anniversary of his death. He passed in 1980, at the dawn of an age when unimaginable extensions of ourselves became woven fabrics in an electronic space as big as the world.

So, I’d like to unofficially dedicate Springs to Marshall McLuhan, who probably helped inspire it. Cherie would understand. So would Marshall, I think.

Please enjoy this excerpt of Springs:

The box, only a little longer than the length of her hand, weighed more than she expected. Solid, she figured. Good wood and craftsmanship from another age, another world. No Chinese slave labor crap here. She examined the repeated design, the hypnotic swirl and sinuous curve of the pattern.

Something small and hard rattled softly inside the box. She imagined it cushioned by velvet.

A simple metal catch held the lacquered lid closed and she flipped it open.

When she raised the lid, she heard a click. What sounded like a mournful sigh escaped the box and then it began to sing. A chiming tone, deep and dark. Scriabin, she thought, or the metal skeleton of some Mahler piece she didn’t recognize, sonorous and slow, each note pure and dark.

Soft brown leather lined the black wood, and in the center of the pleated bottom lay the box’s winding key. She realized the second finger of her left hand rested on the hole where the key fit and the box’s hidden mechanism wound, where it had already been wound by whoever had wrapped it and left it for her to find.

The black enamel key curved suggestively to a tarnished metal tip.

Cherie smiled, and then snorted at the perfect gift. She lost herself for a moment in the run of notes, more beautiful and intricate than any music box tune she’d ever heard. The tune resonated, steel within dense wood, compelling and brooding.

“Who the fuck gave me this?” she whispered as she closed the lid. Cherie retrieved the outer box, looked for a card, and found nothing. She gently tilted the music box to see if the giver had put the card on the bottom.

She found no card, but did find what she assumed was the maker’s mark—an ornate “G” and the numbers “97”.

From beyond the glass wall, sudden light flooded the outer office. Shit. Someone else had arrived. Early, she thought. The sun still wasn’t up.

She sensed a loss of time, as though the box had stolen thirty minutes from her, or a precious hour. She flipped it open, picked up the key, and in spite of the cool metal tip, she found it light. The tune began listlessly and she shut the lid again. She fit the key and wound the box, almost tight.

She set it beside her Mac and lifted the lid.

Ting, ting, ting.

“What’s that?” Matt stood over her.

Where had he come from?

The music wrapped Cherie in bands of sensation and germinated inside her.

She stood up and faced her boss. He wore a black t-shirt from Red Dreams, a rival game studio, and a pair of white jeans. Matt smiled a little uncertainly as he watched the box.

Ting, ting, ting, ting.

Close enough to smell his morning toothpaste breath, she put her hand on his bicep. Lean and muscular. Yes, just how she liked them.

Half the boys who worked at Splatterday Morning had never even been kissed. Many of the others were married—probably to the only girl they’d ever gotten to first base with.

Matt? She’d never figured him out. He had an easy confidence that she liked and usually when she thought about fucking someone from the office, she thought about Matt.

Time to find out how reality measured up to fantasy.

He didn’t resist as she took off his shirt, just looked down at her with an amused, slightly dazed smile. Cherie turned off the Tiffany lamps so that only her monitor lit the room. She leaned forward and bit Matt on his chest, just below his right nipple. He laughed and put his hands on her arms, gently, as though she might break.

Impatient, she bit him again, daring him with sharp teeth. She shed her jacket in a flash and raked her nails across his stomach on the way to his belt.

The music gained urgency, the spring unwinding faster.

She freed his cock and grinned with delight…

Copyright 2011 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

A Gift for Santa - Happy Holidays!

Angela Caperton — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 02:20:26 GMT

All the very sexy best this holiday season.

I hope you enjoy this poem I wrote a couple years ago.

Enjoy, be safe and I'll see you on the other side of the New Year!

A Gift for Santa
Copyright 2009 Angela Caperton

One year as Christmas Eve drew near
My husband said, “Consider, dear,”
How hard old Santa works to bring
His gifts and toys and everything;
Displays of thoughtful, loving care --
The least a man can do is share.”

“This year instead of treats and milk
I’ll leave you bound with ribbon silk,
And let the old elf take his play
With my Mary’s winsome way.
What say you, sweet wife of mine?
Shall this be Mary Christmas time?”

“Of course,” I said, “If I can aid
Santa Claus in his yearly trade,
Then bind me with red ribbon silk
Around my body pale as milk,
And leave me for the Christmas elf,
And I may get a gift myself!”

So, upon that pre-Yule night,
Hubby tied me nice and tight,
Spread beneath the Christmas tree,
Offered up for Kris to see,
Bare above and bare below
Except a silken, scarlet bow.

Dependable as egg nog rum,
Down the chimney St Nick come,
Looked about for milk and cookie
Spied instead the offered nookie,
Laid a finger ‘side his nose
And quickly doffed his Santa clothes.

I have to say I had not thunk
That Santa would be such a hunk.
Driving sleighs must give him strength;
His beard is not his only length,
Nor is his frisky, agile tongue,
No, by the chimney, he was hung!

With lips and teeth he loosed my bow
While whiskers tickled down below
His feasting made me cry with joy
A gift much nicer than a toy.
Then leaving me still silken tied,
Santa showed me how to ride.

‘Round the world in a single night
Oh how we made the treetops light!
Dasher, dancer, prancer, dear,
A comet I saw crystal clear!
Bright blitzen, hot and flashing high,
And donner in our coupled cry.

They say there’s magic in the Yule
Midwinter time, bright spirits rule.
And there was I, the offering
To guarantee the gift of spring.
With mischief in his twinkling eye
Santa kissed my clit goodbye.

Then giving me a single rose,
He donned again his wooly clothes.
Paused beside the dark fireplace
A naughty grin upon his face.
“Now you and hubby please yourselves,
And next year I may bring my elves.”

Then up the chimney he did go,
And I lay bound in afterglow,
Till hubby came and me untied
Took me up like a new bride,
And we made love in every way
To celebrate our Christmas Day.

Winter Heat - Excerpt from "Löyly"

Angela Caperton — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 22:29:21 GMT

There’s something sensual and erotic about bodies bound together by tendrils of steam, about pressed flesh that burns defiantly against the wind and snows of Winter. During this time of year when we might find the close proximity of sweatered crowds oppressive as we drag through malls shopping for the holidays, take a break and enjoy a different kind of heat, a more satisfying flagellation than that provided by biting anxiety driven by seasonal obligations.

Löyly is Finnish for ‘spirit’ and also for the steam that is produced by water sprinkled on hot rocks in a sauna (the other Finnish invention-predating Nokia cell phone technology!). There’s a reason for the dual meaning, and if you’ve ever enjoyed a true Finnish sauna, you understand the harmony and freedom found in the steam and in the birch-branch flagellation that opens the pores and the soul, and fills the air with fragrant delight.

“Löyly” is the opening story in Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. I hope you enjoy the excerpt. If you do, I bet you’ll like the entire anthology.

Excerpt from "Löyly"
By Angela Caperton
Published in Smooth: Erotic Stories for Women
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Copyright 2010

I swam for an hour then I dragged my pruned body out of the pool, showered in the little changing room, and stepped back out on the deck to stand transfixed by the vista beyond the foggy windows. While annoyed by the shitty weather, I loved the beauty and serenity of the snowfall. The large flakes drifted down completely at the whim of whatever wind might blow. Some fell heavy, wet, like obese calcified raindrops, others drifted to the ground in intricate Zen paths.

The perfect blanket over the ground amazed me. Painted green, the smoothness of the carpet would have been the envy of Augusta National.

Except for the quickly filling divots leading off into the veil. Footprints made not long ago, headed toward what?

The sauna. Someone apparently had a GPS and had found the temple of Sorrow Cove.

The grin started in my belly, and without a moment’s analysis, I wrapped my robe around myself, scuffed on my rubber clogs and found the door leading outside. The blast of cold air almost made me run back to my room, but I had to do this, I had to beat the elements, had to take control of the vacation I’d never wanted but had inherited. If this trip was going to have any meaning, I needed to make it my own – not let it stay Jeff’s irrelevancy.

The snow kissed my hair and clung to my robe, the cold air keeping it from melting right away. My breath sprayed in front of me like fueled smoke as I squinted against the fall to focus on the little shack, the destination of the quickly filling tracks.

When I reached the little building, I pulled the door open, praying I’d not find hedge trimmers and jugs of pesticide. My prayers were answered with a vision -- glorious, living sculpture.

Rodin. Michelangelo.

Sculpted thighs, corded arms, pecs, abs, a brooding countenance.

And not one beautiful inch concealed by clothing.

“The door. You let the steam out.”

Steam? Out? No, I thought as I let the closing door slap me in the butt. All the steam must be in here, boiling my blood, peaking my heartbeat. Surely I was producing enough heat now to replace any that had escaped in smoky plumes through the open door.

Naked. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize—” I turned quickly, fumbling for the door latch.

“No, please stay.” Not the Yooper accent of the locals. Dutch, maybe? “Welcome.”

Beyond the door – snow and another gutter ball on the score card. I could do this. I had to do this.

I turned back around and smiled, feeling a little foolish as Adonis pulled a towel over his groin. Damn.

He jutted his chin toward the wall and I saw a row of wooden pegs. A thick moss-green robe hung from one of the pegs and I quickly removed my own robe and hung it beside his.

The small room was completely made of wood – smooth slats of cedar covered the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the two-level bench. Adonis sat at one end of the lower bench beside what looked like a stove filled with large grey and brown rocks. A bucket of water sat at his feet.

He leaned over and dipped a ladle into the water and looked over his shoulder at me. “Sit,” he nodded to the bench. I tried to look casual as I took a seat a comfortable distance from him and watched as he poured the water over the rocks.

Steam rose from the hot stones, quickly dissipating. Heat bloomed in the room and I found myself smiling.

Adonis sat back on the bench and looked at me. Small beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip. What would he do if I offered to lick the sweat off? He reached out a long-fingered hand. “I am Matias. Matias Toskala.”

I grinned and gripped his hand in a polite shake. “Andie Fortner.” Naked. Only a tenuous scrap of terry stood between us. “I’m really sorry about barging in. I didn’t know,” my voice trailed off as my cheeks burned.

“I was not expecting anyone else, but it is okay. Naked is best for sauna.” He brushed long light brown bangs from his forehead.

“It is?” Smooth, Andie.

“Tradition. Back home, saunas are enjoyed bare, though not often men and women together.”

“Where’s home?”

“Helsinki, Finland. I teach at university and am here to lecture at the school in Hancock.”

“I’d say you’re a long way from home but considering the weather and the fact that we’re in a sauna, I guess I’m the alien here.” If my accent didn’t scream Dixie draft, Dolly Parton would weep.

He laughed softly, his smile genuine and disarming. “Do you know about saunas?”

“I know they’re hot, and make you sweat, but that’s about all – oh, and that they are best experienced naked.” I said with a grin.

Naked. He wasn’t putting the moves on me, and he was comfortable with his own nakedness. What the hell? I’d dashed through a blizzard to reach this shack, and if a real live Finn was telling me naked was the way to go, well tan lines be damned, naked was what I was going to be.

If my knees would hold me up.

I stood and slid the straps of my one piece off my shoulders and in a momentary flood of courage, peeled the wet material off my body in one hopefully graceful movement. I waited for the high school marching band to burst through the doors and seal my embarrassment, but it didn’t happen. Instead, the shock of my spontaneity melted like butter into an odd ease. I walked back over to the peg where my robe hung, and deposited my suit. It was the turning back around and walking the two steps to my towel that seemed unreasonable.

Deep breath, racing heart, I made that turn and took my seat again. I looked at Matias with a broad smile. He was watching me, all of me, but there was no leer in his eyes, just calm appraisal.

“So, naked’s best. What else about saunas?”

His eyebrow quirked, but his face remained passive. He took up the ladle again and poured more water over the stones. There was a little mist, but the steam quickly filled the room with more heat. “That is löyly – steam – but it means more. Löyly is also spirit.”

“The sauna has a spirit?”

“It can be said, yes.” He poured another ladle over the rocks. As the heat washed over me, my bones turned to putty and every pore in my skin sighed.

I smiled. Better spirit than the bourbon I drank the night before.

Matias moved his towel aside. I tried not to stare but his cock bounced attractively as he rose from his seat. Reaching to the wall, he took what appeared to be a small tree limb from its hook. On the long branches, bright green leaves shone with moisture. “This is a vihta – birch leaves. We beat the skin with the branches.”

“Beat?”

He gave the gathered branches a little shake, then stretched across his opposite shoulder to swat his back. More attractive bouncing and I really had to resist reaching out to touch him.

“They stimulate the skin,” he held the branches out to me.

“Okay,” I said without much conviction, but hey, in for a penny, in for a pound.

I tried to wrap my hand around the gathered stems, but the individual thin branches seemed determined to flop their own way in spite of the straw binding at the base.

He chuckled again and reached for the branches. “Here,” he said, taking the vihta in a masterful hand that had the branches sliding into submission. He dipped the leaves into another bucket of water then smiled at me. “Turn away, and pull your hair back. You will see.”

See what, I wondered as I did as he said. Naked and alone with a naked man about to be flayed with a tree. I could see the postcard to my mother now.

Blood pounded in my veins and pooled suspiciously in my belly. Anticipation added an edge of tension and vulnerability before the bright shock of the strike. It wasn’t hard, but the leaves laced my skin with firm control, a lush wetness and a shimmer of sting that slashed my back with an awakening charge of delight. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, the fresh scent of the birch binding me in a cloud of awareness and newfound sensation.

The second strike layered the first, a few leaf tips stroking the backs of my arms and the nape of my exposed neck. The rich cream of arousal mixed with wonder as the birch blessed my skin. My back warmed further, the skin made new with the sharp, green kisses. My mind drifted, like it did after too much wine, and I arched like a cat, my back bowed to invite the next strike, the tender flesh over my ribs and sides of my breasts exposed.

Beads of perspiration and condensation trickled down my sides, under my breasts, and my pussy, exposed to the steam of the sauna, to this bizarre, otherworldly moment, swelled and slicked.

Every inch of my skin hummed with the heat and humidity of the sauna and my mind became the fulcrum between my body and my soul. Desire coursed through me, my pussy anticipating the next strike of the birch with a heartbeat pulse that nearly melted me, my breath matched the rolling press of air, water, and fire.

The next strike sliced my upper back, light nettles bolting sensation from the side of my right breast directly to the untouched nipple. I imagined Mathias’ teeth clamping on the nub, sucking at the nipple, cupping the weight and branding me with his tongue.

I needed his cock. I wanted him in the most savage, most basic way a man and woman connected. I needed him to fuck me. He beat me after all. I willingly sat in this little hut of wet fire and let him strike me with sticks. His balls slapping my ass didn’t seem a stretch.

I leaned far forward, my arms trembling, my breath a rush in my ears, and the birch fell again twice, rapid, the second harder than the first and lashing just across the crack of my ass. Nerves raw, flayed to the feverish temperature of the sauna, the last across the small of my back and the top of my ass tossed me to the edge of orgasm.

I moaned. I barely heard it above the ringing pulse in my ears, my lips, my pussy, but the sound rattled off the wood walls of the sauna.

I dripped from my nose, my arms, my chin, my sex. Every inch of me bloomed and reached, seeking, yet full as I plumped with liquid fire even as I released, renewed, revived. Jeff’s dismissal, my mundane job, the honest absurdity of my being in Michigan in November all faded comfortably into the realm of the inconsequential. All that mattered was the sure pulse of my blood, the heavy drop of my heart, the electric thrill of my nerves. Water collected on my skin, housed me, cleansed me, invigorated me, and I, for the first time in my life, felt everything.

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Horror or not? - Salamander

Angela Caperton — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 22:25:17 GMT

In a recent discussion of the different approaches to writing “horror,” I remembered this story that I wrote for an anthology a couple of years ago. I ended up selling them another tale, but they rejected this one, although they liked it very much. I’ll tell you the reason after the story:

Here and there, the bricks still glowed, smoldering red clay in the deepening dusk.

Shelley watched the blackened expanse where a house had stood for over one hundred years, right up to that afternoon. Her first day with the crew, the only woman in a 12-person volunteer fire brigade serving the tiny community of Deerbourn. Her luck her first fire turned out to be the old Adler house.

“I’m glad we’re too late,” Bubba Driscoll said as they watched the roof give way and fall incandescently inward. “Fucking place should’ve been burned years ago.” Bubba, as always, stood too near Shelley. He smelled like cheese.

Everyone knew about the Adler house. Back in the 80s, Gus Adler killed five people over two years’ time, abducting them, bringing them here and torturing them to death. Shelley grew up on horror stories about Gus Adler. Some people said he had accomplices who were never caught.

The crew made sure the fire couldn’t spread, cutting trees, soaking the perimeter. The house burned beyond salvation, slowly imploding in showers of sparks and billowing black smoke.

“Someone has to stay here and watch it,” Deak Howell said.

“New girl gets the job,” Tom Skaggs said and all of them laughed.

“You ain’t gonna be too scared, are you?” someone asked.

Bubba offered to stay and keep her company.

“Better stay till at least … oh, midnight.”

Pigs. Every fucking one of them. Assholes.

She sat in the truck mostly, but every half hour, she walked around the blackened square of smoking timber, hearing nightbirds, insects, the thrum of distant highway traffic.

She fell asleep once and awakened to the sound of shuffling footsteps. She went for the gun she had stuffed in the glove compartment and the flashlight. She threw open the door and spotlighted the sound – a dull-eyed, blinking armadillo.

Laughing, she climbed out of the truck and watched the little mammal-tank scurry back into the brush. Stupid to be scared, she thought. She’d show Bubba and the other jerks. She almost hoped one of them would try to sneak up on her and scare her. Blowing Deak’s balls off might improve her mood.

Even the worst Gus Adler stories didn’t scare Shelley. Some people said that he had sacrificed those five people, and maybe more, to what he called the God of Fire and that there were still people in Deerbourn who worshiped the God of Fire. Maybe the goddamned volunteer fire department, she mused and laughed.

Then her laughter froze.

An oily shape moved among the ashes, twisted and red. A trick? No, Bubba and the others could never devise this.

The shape curled into a man. She aimed the flashlight at him and held the gun ready. In the beam, his skin shone dully, the color of burnt brick.

“Tell me,” he asked in a smoky, promising whisper. “Just how much do you hate those assholes?”

**
Although the anthology was calling for horror stories, the editors were adamant that the horror could not include any supernatural elements. The interesting thing was, in their call for submissions, they didn’t specify this because, to their minds, horror and supernatural horror were two different things! There's no doubt about it, genre is a funny thing....

Stella Goes Abroad

Angela Caperton — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 22:03:41 GMT

I’m still new enough to this business of writing and selling stories that I still get a real thrill at the news that one of my publishers, Circlet Press, has sold foreign rights to one of my stories. My novel Man’s World has been picked up for a German edition, and I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am about that. I’ve had one previous story, “Understudy”, sold to a foreign publisher as part of the anthology Lust at First Bite, so this isn’t entirely unprecedented, but this time it’s all my words that are wanted across the Atlantic!

I read and speak a little German, so I am very excited to see how this turns out. Man’s World is one of the few science fiction stories I’ve written and it seems to me that translating SF must take special skills. In a genre that is already full of made-up words, what must a translator do to re-imagine a word, retain the meaning, then very likely make up yet another new word?

Man’s World is the story of Stella Blue Darter, an interstellar working girl who decides to ditch the game and seek her fortunes anywhere she can land. Fate sends her to Moulton, a planet founded along the tenets of a very strange philosophy. Her adventures in the world of the Fumblars, the Debs, and the Scions create a fun, and I hope, a hot interstellar romp!

Here’s an excerpt from the American edition:

Then light battered her eyelids, brighter than sunlight, and a harsh voice racked her nerves.

“Police. Stand up and put your hands where we can see them.”

Harker’s wonderful heat went away and Stella forced her eyes to open. She would have known the men were cops even if they hadn’t identified themselves or hadn’t been wearing slate gray, military styled uniforms.

Harker obeyed them and Stella figured she should too. She slid off the hood, careful to keep her hands in sight, though the cops couldn’t possibly have worried about concealed weapons on either of them. At first she couldn’t imagine where the officers had come from and then she realized their vehicle hovered only a short distance away, just at the edge of the cliff that overlooked the roaring river below. The craft seemed to be spun of glass or gossamer, completely transparent and powered by a small, whisper-quiet whirling blade. They had come either from above or below and probably had a good view of the action before they debarked and announced themselves. She hoped they had at least been entertained.

One of the men was older and he shined his light on Stella like a spotlight lingering on a stripper. His younger partner seemed more interested in Harker.

“Run ‘em, Dextro,” the older guy said and the younger cop stuck Harker’s hip with a tiny needle attached by a wire to a pod on his belt. Then he stuck Stella, though she hardly felt it.

“Got him, Sarge,” Dextro said, reading his pod. “Harker Merman of the National Petroleum Mermans. Second son. Offworld until about three months ago. Clean.”

“Who’s the slit?”

“No record. Offworlder not in the database.”

The older officer examined the reading on his own pod and Bo seized the moment to flow up Stella’s ankles and cover her in a modest jumper.

Sarge wasn’t happy when his attention returned to her. “The fuck? I told you not to move.”

“I saw it,” Dextro said. “It’s one of them smart dresses.”

The old cop huffed. He looked at Harker and growled, “Get your pants on.” This time Dextro’s disappointment flowered as Harker found his pants and pulled them on.

“You’re in big trouble, Merman,” the sergeant said. “Apart from public indecency, you got a woman here, and an unregistered one at that.”

“We’re from the cotillion,” he said.

“She’s too pretty for a cotillion girl.”

Harker shrugged. “You want to mess with cotillion business, that’s your affair. Arrest us if that’s what you want to do.”

Sarge considered. “I can’t just let you go.”

“How about we give each of ‘em a chance to pay their fine, Sarge. You know what I mean.”

“No fucking way,” Stella said, pinning Sarge with an icy stare. “I’d rather eat roc-lite.”

“How about you tell me how many credits the fine is, officer,” Harker offered. “and I’ll pay you. Save us all some time.”

“Four thousand ought to cover it,” the sergeant said. “If you don’t have it all, you can work something out with Dextro here.”

Harker fished in his pocket and produced a sheaf of bills. He started to count them and Sarge snatched them out of his hand. “I trust you,” he said.

Harker bristled but the younger cop had drawn a weapon.

“Be glad I’m feeling generous tonight, Merman. I could keep your money, claim you stumbled into the falls trying to run away, and keep the girl for myself. For awhile, at least. Now you better get your asses back to the cotillion before I change my mind.”

They mounted the crystalline flyer without looking and it rose rapidly and silently into the air. Looking up, Stella realized the cops’ gray uniforms blended perfectly with the night sky and that their presence overhead was only revealed by an absence of stars.

Harker picked up his shirt but didn’t wear it. They drove back down the mountain toward the city, silent at first, tense from a narrow escape. “Tell me about that dress of yours,” he said, when they had both calmed a little.

“Bo?”

“It has a name?”

“She’s a Beau Brummel plesomesh. Nanotech. Basically a swarm of tiny harvesters and synthesizers with a distributed brain.”

“Can it .. she … make anything you think of?”

“No, she’s programmed for designs and accessories. Her memory is crammed full with designs and soft sense. Without an uplink, she can learn behavior but not new fashions.”

He laughed. “Sounds like half the wives in Scion City. How does she make the fabric?”

“The harvesters are constantly picking up substances from the environment, atoms of this and that, dead skin cells from me.” She laughed. “She’s probably got something of yours now too. All the stuff she collects can be resynthed and she tries to re-use whatever she can.”

“Yeah, I noticed back there that the clothes I took off you vanished when she dressed you again.”

“Bo is a little miracle of efficiency. Wish she could give me lessons.”

“What did she cost you?”

Stella told him and he whistled. “You could buy half of Fumblar for that.”

“Best fortune I ever spent,” she said and laughed, but the laughter faded fast. Harker pulled back into the packed parking lot by the dancehall, returning to the very space they had left. They walked quietly toward the door and Stella cast one last look up at the night sky, but the view up there had been ruined with clouds.

**

Also, I’m very excited to announce that my lesbian shape shifter story “Sweetwater Pass” will be in the upcoming Cleis anthology She-Shifters. “Sweetwater Pass” is the story of a young woman traveling across the American frontier and her encounter with a Native American spirit. Look for She-Shifters in 2012!

Occupy Erotica!!

Angela Caperton — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 21:21:35 GMT

I worry about those OWS participants on the New York streets with winter on its way, but I sure do admire them too. I’m not an especially political person, but anyone who really looks at the distribution of wealth in the United States can see there is a terrible, widening gap between the haves and the have-nots. I’m sure I would have some points of disagreement with some of the occupiers, but I appreciate them speaking out for economic balance.

So, when Alessia Brio of the Coming Together philanthropic anthologies opened her call for stories for her collection Occupy Coming Together, I had to find a story to contribute to the cause. The Coming Together books are a wonderful way to raise some bucks for good causes. Among the causes that they have supported are Conservation International and Autism Speaks among other causes. I recently contributed a story “Lawman” to the collection Coming Together: In Flux, in support of the Woodhull Foundation, and am delighted now to have “Playing the Market” as a stand-alone to help the Occupy movement feed the occupiers during their days and weeks in the streets and parks of our cities.

I wrote “Playing the Market” back in 2008, not long after the financial meltdown in the mortgage and banking industry. It’s the story of Jessie, a bond trader, who loses her job in the backwash of impending recession. Left with nothing, she decides to leverage the assets remaining to her – good looks and an adventurous nature – and pursue a new type of investment.

Here’s how she starts her career:

Excerpt of
"Playing the Market"
by Angela Caperton

How the fuck am I going to pay the rent? She thought again and smiled, turning at the bar to scan the big, smoky room, full of tables and people. Funny thing. Ever since the world went to shit, nobody paid much attention to the smoking ordinance. Jessie had never been in Waxy’s before and she wondered if the crowd was typical, a little older than the places she usually went, better dressed, like the downturn hadn’t hit them as hard yet.

She crossed her legs, smoothing her stocking, shoulders back, chin up, looking for the right guy. A gray-haired, fat man in a Lauren sweater tried to catch her eye but she pretended she didn’t see him.

God, she felt like she was back in high school as she looked over the boys, knowing exactly what she wanted from them. She had standards even then, and she prided herself on being picky until she found the right one. Tonight was no different. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted five hundred dollars to make her rent.

She knew Waxy’s management would frown upon her new profession but Jessie knew if her plan was to succeed, she needed to be in a place where men had money. She remembered the punchline of an old joke. Which one of the cheap bastards gave you a quarter? All of them.

No. One time. One good fuck with a guy she might have slept with anyway and she would never do this again. She just needed a stop gap.

She shifted on her stool, letting her skirt ride up just a little, not slutty but casual, and she looked down the bar to a man three stools away to her right. Not bad. Mid-thirties, thick, dark hair, serious around his eyes, but his lips looked scrumptious.

He looked at her, as if he sensed her appraisal. He moved with fluid ease to sit beside her, his smile confident and warm. “I’m Derrick,” he said. “Derrick Johns.”

“Jessie,” she nearly purred as she broke his gaze and looked down, a little shy but not sure why. His eyes were deep blue and very direct.

He tapped the bar to attract the bartender. “You work in the district?” He asked, his voice like cognac.

“No.” she lied. “I’m a stewardess.”

He grinned. “No offense, but you look smart enough I figured you’re a trader, and I thought you might have lost your job.”

She swiveled to face him, a little shaken.

He smiled. “Drink’s on me.”

They fell into easy conversation, funny, quick and intelligent. She liked talking to him. When he touched her hand as they worked on their third drink, she liked that too.

As she finished the drink, he leaned close and thrilled her. “I have a room at the Alpine. Will you go back there with me?”

She found exhaling hard all of a sudden. “Sure,” she said, trying for a gaze that left no mistaking her intentions, hoping for a hard and mercenary shine. “For five hundred dollars.”

He laughed but she held her expression, the faintest twitch of a smile, exactly as she had rehearsed.

“You mean it?” Derrick remarked, his voice a little breathless. “I’ll be damned. All right. Why not? But let’s make this interesting, shall we? Five hundred cash, but you have to do whatever I say. Fair?”

She wavered and hoped her weakness didn’t show. “I don’t like pain,” she stated flatly.

“What kind of sicko do you think I am? No, no pain. Nothing bad at all. First thing is, we go someplace else. Come on.”

**

Please buy a copy of “Playing the Market” and support the voice of the 99% as it’s being expressed on Wall Street and Main Street! And isn't it fitting that it’s only 99 cents?

Carny - October 31

Angela Caperton — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 23:46:33 GMT

Welcome to my serial Carny! I hope you enjoy this little Halloween treat. New episodes will appear every day through October.

Step right up! For just a dime see wonders beyond imagining!

And maybe we'll let you leave with your soul...

Start on October 1

October 31

Late on Halloween morning, a clown walked through the carnival, idly among the rides, past the games of skill and chance, and down toward the sideshow. Copley watched him approach, looking up from his newspaper. He sized the guy up, eighteen, maybe nineteen, ragged clothes and oversized shoes, a red rubber nose visible at a hundred paces. The magician looked back down at the paper.

“Russian Bomb Explodes!” read the newspaper headline, and so it had.

Copley had the picture of it in his head, a ball bright as the sun, a sick hatching to end the world, and yet here he was, alive on a bright October morning.

He only remembered pieces of the night, but the fragments were both vivid and impossible. The morning held only a few answers and little comfort. Everything had changed. Venus ran the cooch show now, but she was just Venus, a gorgeous, stacked dancer with a gleam in her eye like she knew just what everyone wanted. Today she looked hung over, but in control. Copley’s questions would wait.

Nick. The devil. Something in him had been turned. Venus might have done it, but Copley also remembered that he had heard Nick ask sometime in the rapturous night, “Do you believe I really wanted this to end?” Copley understood that the devil was one of them now. He didn’t have to like it, but he understood it. Nick had moved into Boss Willy’s trailer but that was a sham. Everyone knew Copley was the ran the show now.

The time of the magician had come. At least that’s what Pan said.

Where was Pan? When the orgy had wound down, Pan had pulled his dripping prick from the devil’s ass and kissed him, long and lasciviously. That was the last thing Copley remembered. He hadn’t seen Pan since. Copley hoped the demigod would be back though he had a hunch Pan had plans of his own.

The clown shuffled his big feet, shy at the last approach. Copley crossed his ankles, leaned back, and watched the kid.

Everything had changed. His veins pulsed with real magic he could call upon whenever he needed it; he had no doubt about it. Or you’re just a con man falling for his own con, he thought, the voice sounding a lot like Nick’s. He laughed, shaking his head. The devil wasn’t on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. He had the devil selling cotton candy outside the ring toss.

The clown stopped in mid-step, spooked, like a deer about to run.

“Morning,” Copley said.

“You guys need a clown?” The kid was tall and built like a farmhand, but there was grace in his posture. His face had character but he looked goofy too.

Copley considered the question. He saw something of the rituals ahead of them all, the turning of times and tides. “Sure,” he said. “We can use a clown, if you’re funny.”

“I can juggle.”

Copley figured that might be handy too. “What makes you want to join the carnival?"

The clown shrugged and Copley saw the answer in his greasepaint-lined eyes. “Magic.”

“Okay,” Copley nodded. “You’re in. We got a lot of ground to cover before winter season ends. This year, we may go right on through to spring.”

~End~

Carny - October 30

Angela Caperton — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 17:45:06 GMT

Start at October 1

October 30

Pan remembered deep green fields and the promise of wine-dark seas. Inside the smoky tent, anything seemed possible. Midnight had passed a long time ago and the tip had grown, a rowdy surge of men and women filled the midway. The game jockeys played for real money and when the rubes’ money ran out, they played for kisses.

One turn of the Ferris wheel, every car had held a fucking couple.

Ritual. Renewal.

A shield against the devil’s star.

Pan didn’t completely understand the metal and menace, but knew that unless he and Copley and the others performed their rite, the devil would lay his egg. The egg would hatch. This wasn’t Mars, it wasn’t Hades, although this Nick borrowed the pantomime of older gods. The world would cease to be and the devil would win.

Forever.

So Pan danced on the stage, borrowed an instrument Ned called a harmonica and he played wild music, hooves stomping, bringing the revel to fullness. Pan smelled the wet heat of every woman in the tent, a mixture rich as spring earth. He would fuck them all before morning – most of the men too -- when the rite had been performed.

Copley stood proud, the magician, Pan’s priest. He talked to the sky as much as he talked to the sweaty, lusting crowd, “Out of the Golden Age, Pan returns, the wonder of the wild places, the piper, the terror…know Pan! Know his gifts!”

Pan danced and twirled, he caught Venus up in his arms, stripped away her white veil to expose her pasties and G. She fought against him, and he savaged her with a kiss before he set her free to dance. She was as lithe as a naiad. Of all the men and women in the tent, Pan would enjoy fucking her the most.

Venus whirled and stretched, held her arched grace in ready abandon, driving the men in the crowd insane with their desire. Pan caught the town women in his web of musk and, when he danced with Venus, who was every woman, he rose with her, hard against her softness, and tasted all the joyous passion within the sea of humanity before him.

Time burned like the stub of a candle.

Pan blew his harp and danced the rite of life.

A wave of hard laughter sundered the crowd and the canvas walls shook. Pan saw them at once. Nick’s boys, sullen and clad in gray, like mold on a painted wall. The devil came in, hardly bothering to hide his nature. Pan saw him as he was, hooves and horns. He might have been Pan’s twin, but for the scowl and the lashing tail.

Pan smelled the mingled scents of lust and fear, the crowd drowned in madness. He didn’t wait, the urgency overwhelming, and tore Venus’ G away, his cock rising to the rite, ready to bring her down upon him.

Copley cried, “Behold Pan, he is brighter than death!”

“Stop this degeneracy,” the devil commanded and voices in the crowd roared objection. Somebody threw a punch. Pan faltered, his stumble a clash of hoof to floor. He felt the exhalation of the tent, as though a single being breathed through the steady sureness of a canvas lung.

Venus held tightly to him as Nick climbed to the stage.

“This stops now,” Nick ordered, showing a badge of some kind to the crowd. The crowd largely ignored him, their cries wilder. The air smelled of semen and sweet spice. Buddy appeared on the stage, dressed in a fur loincloth, Mina, Maggie, Big Mike joining them.

Oh yes, Pan thought to himself, proud. "The festival begins now."

“You’re too late,” the devil cried, cackling, and caught Pan in a firm grip, a razor blade of keen obsidian pressed against his throat, the edge of darkness eager for his blood. “We have just enough time to skin you.”

Copley tried to reach him, but Nick’s goons held him. Pan regretted that the mage’s magic was still so weak, and he understood then that the devil’s victory was assured as the blade bit, drawing sacred blood. He began to slip away again into the dark years, into the awful place he only now remembered.

Why had this time, this passage, been so achingly brief?

“You stop.” Venus’ voice rang with irresistible authority. Even at the edge of sacrifice, Pan heard and could not disobey.

When he opened his eyes, he saw an egg of light above black, cold seas, then he saw the balance. The terrible fire was nothing. Nothing at all.

Venus held Nick’s chin in her hand as the devil knelt before her.

She beckoned Pan to approach while Copley talked to the crowd.

“See the goddess,” he cried, his voice gone a little shrill. “Venus! She conquers the devil himself!”

Pan whooped. How could he not have recognized her? His goddess. “Venus,” he cried, capering.

The crowd was well beyond hearing him, insane with desire and love for one another, for Pan, Venus, the devil. Together with the mage, the dwarf, all of them, even the devil, all together for the next two hours, they joyfully practiced rites to save the world.